


two corpses we were; two corpses I saw

by limerental



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Advanced Somnophilia, Anal Prolapse, Blood and Gore, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death by Pussy, Don't Read This, Dubious Morality, Erotic Death, F/M, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Murder Kink, Necrophilia, Temporary Character Death, Unbirthing Fantasy, Unhealthy Relationships, Vore, and other such ends, aw ://, the necrophilia is consensual, this just ain't right man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26899402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: Yennefer does not intend to kill him.Not the first time.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 26
Kudos: 111





	two corpses we were; two corpses I saw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stillmadaboutpetra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/gifts).



> PLEASE PLEASE be mindful of the warnings here.
> 
> Dandelion/Jaskier is a dies but comes back again immortal and gets off on being erotically killed, and Yennefer takes advantage. This goes HEAVY on the gore and nasty sides of death and sexuality blurred. The necrophilia is consensual/pre-meditated/basically just advanced somnophilia but descriptive. Neither of these characters are nice or normal or neat.
> 
> I deliberately wrote this so that it could be read somewhat as book or showfic.
> 
> I was ONE-UPPED by mad in writing necrophilia jaskier first so I wrote anal prolapse jaskier first. for nasty reasons. please judge me lmao
> 
> Potential mild and vague book spoilers.

Yennefer does not intend to kill him.

She does not dislike him enough to kill him. He is a minor annoyance, a niggling insect, and she is not a killer, does not like killing.

It is an accident.

She does not intend to draw him into her bed at all, but circumstances have recently aligned so that she has not seen the Witcher in months now and had little opportunity to seek out alternative outlets. She loves Geralt as dearly as she is able, but a woman has needs.

So when his bard crashes headlong into her periphery, it is simply logical that she lead him up to her rooms.

It’s not the first time. He is willing, and he is attentive, and has long, lean limbs with skin so pale her fingernails only need ghost along them to draw blood to the surface.

He takes up more space in death.

Gone the light flit of his limbs and liquid shift of his expressions, weightless and airy, a lifetime of flouncing and foppish tosses of his hair giving the illusion that he could float away on a breeze. Like the cotton seedhead of a roadside weed. His tidy features dusted in powder and his figure clustered with baubles and feathery, jangling, gold-touched accouterments. He has always appeared better suited to the gauze sheen of dragonfly wings rustling from the cut of his shoulderblades, than to the hollow, human truth of him.

He is large in death, bodily so. He is heavy and unyielding, limbs refusing to sit neat instead of sprawl, and when she crooks him in her arms like a babe, she finds them too full of him, overflowing. He is taller than her, wider, and he does not fit snug at her breast like she wants no matter how she paws and grasps at him. If Yennefer were to swallow him whole, he would not fit. If she were to wear his skin, it would billow.

He is only human, is the difficulty, and it is understandably easy for someone like her to forget the limits of such an affliction. She has lain with sorcerers and kings, mutants and liminal beings with no true substance, so she must be forgiven a minute or so of forgetfulness.

A minute or two longer than the poet could hold his breath.

She thinks what to tell Geralt. Thinks whether she could lie, if she is the kind of person capable of keeping something like this hushed and secret. Yennefer has lived many, many long years cursed with the truth of knowing just how many secrets like this hide within ordinary men’s thoughts.

Someone else may have killed him, given time. Someone else may have wiped their hands of the body and gone on.

She kills him like this:

Thighs splayed to cocoon his head. Rocking the hot brand of her cunt into a smear across his face. It is good, his wagging tongue tamed like this. She grows tired of his ceaseless, messy scrabbling against the meat of her thighs and speaks a word to pin them. She closes her eyes to the whining plead of what is visible of his expression. She silences the chatter of his thoughts battering hers and tips back her head and loses herself in the rhythm of her own hips rutting down and down.

She is a fool, but so is he.

Had he not set the precedent for such annoyances, she may have noticed in time. He is too loud, too much, even buried in her cunt, and the Witcher can spend eons breathless at the crux of her legs. The mistake is simple.

She knows she is a fool only as the rippling heave of her orgasm relaxes its grip on her.

Beneath her, the foolish man has never rested so still and quiet.

That is how she knows.

* * *

In the dull hush of a borrowed room, Yennefer rocks the body in her arms.

A lamp glows on the bedside table, and beyond the barred door and stone walls, a midnight silence. No witnesses. No moonlight through the shutters.

She hunches, rocking, bending to the old crook of her shoulders. No one can see, but she itches, feeling just as she had once while masturbating in the hallway of her girlhood dormitory, dizzy with the thought that she could be caught.

In the room, there is a noise like a kettle steaming, a building whine.

It is her throat that makes the noise, unbidden.

She does not intend to make the sound or to clutch at the fabric bunched up under the body’s armpits or to tip her weight back and forth, back and forth, trying to fit the unwieldy corpse into the bend of her elbows, the fold of her lap. The neck is slack and the jaw also. The lamplight catches the sheen of drool and slick in the sag of his bottom lip. He is still wet with his last drink of her. He is overflowing.

She has never spent so long with death, not even as a ragged farm girl. Deemed too frail to raise the hatchet, too wrong-made to be witnessed by the village men out leaning on the paddock fence where the butchering got done.

And unlike this, the death of a hog is ritualized, is planned and proper, is a defiant squeal and wet thunk, fresh meat and tallow. Not this, not this silence and suddenness, not this body she cannot move for its awkward tumble of limbs, its weight. Not this.

Her hands are unbloodied.

He is whole and still.

There is no moon, and the silence crescendos.

It is then that clawed fingers of the body lurch to tightness on her arms.

She shrieks and is struck with immediate humiliation over the shrill sound, but anyone, even her cruelest and pettiest of enemies, would forgive her the moment of weakness. Given the circumstances.

A dead man blinks coyly up at her, pinking along his collar and round cheeks.

She moves quickly then, flinging an outstretched hand to call a hidden dagger that tears from the folds of her discarded skirts and leaps into her hand, hitched against the bob of his throat.

“Ow, ow!” the dead man whines pitiably, squirming away from the silver blade.

But there is no hiss of tainted blood. No smell of burning flesh.

A pulse beats wildly against the sharp of the dagger, red beading up and rolling across its dull sheen.

“You’re alive,” she says, sharp gaze searching his upturned face. His mouth is rounded and open, his hair mussed across the linens of the bed, and slobber spills down his chin, the damp of her own fluids still shining on his cheeks. He is alive.

“Oh,” he gusts. “I died, then? How unfortunate.” His expression wrinkles over the words, whole face animated with the sheer melodrama that is his hallmark. “Unfortunate company to do something like that in. I assume you’ll be wanting some sort of--” He lifts a hand and sweeps it, fingers bunched and bizarrely gesturing. “-- explanation.”

The dagger eases away, leaving a bloodied line for him to press daintily at with fingers still tinged with paleness. Tipped backwards and sprawled as he is across her bent knees, he looks as though he could have woken from a restless sleep. He looks as he does on nights she finally allows his orgasm to punch through him after prolonged denial, heavy-lidded and pink-cheeked and needy. He makes no move to adjust his clothing or rise from her lap, and she makes no move to shove him away. His chest swells with luxuriant breaths, indulging on the air itself. He squirms to palm a hand between his legs.

He is alive.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” he drawls, drunk-tongued and languid, gazing up at her with what he must presume is a sultry narrowing of the eyes and a coquettish smile, “did you _weep_ for me?”

* * *

The second time, she kills him with her hands.

He does not resist, chin tipped back in offering as her fingers bend tight and tighter still around the white column of his throat. She takes his easy breath so freshly regained, feeling the cartilage of his windpipe buckle in her grip.

It takes more force than expected. Killing a man this way.

Her hands begin to ache and her taut arms tremble, and so she rises above him, knees driven into his ribcage, allowing the slight weight of her body to push down through her clutching fingers.

She is death, naked and wild-haired, bent over her victim even as the tear tracks dry down her cheeks. She does not recall weeping. Shock and nothing more. A meaningless bodily reaction, borne out of the unexpected suddenness and confusion of it all.

His eyes bulge and pop with red veins. He wheezes feebly.

A wet, rhythmic sound behind her.

She peers over a hunched shoulder, past the line of her hip to see him stripping his erection in frantic pulls. The reddened organ turgid and drooling. Racing his own suffocation.

She bears down.

He stiffens, and thin spatters of semen wet the naked soles of her feet, and he slumps.

Her hands loosen from his neck, trembling with stiffness, uncurling from the hook of claws to see that the divots of her nails have drawn blood. Trails of spittle pool in the knobs of her knuckles. His eyes bulge in glassy stillness.

He is dead.

This time, it does not take him longer than a few, dragging minutes to gasp back to life. Perhaps it only took a few, dragging minutes the first time.

“Now,” says Yennefer as she unfolds her legs from his chest and stands, wiping her hands on her naked thighs, “it’s time that you explain.”

* * *

He does not recall the first time he died, but it has been occurring with regularity for the past decade or so, the truth of it only fully reconciled after meeting a particularly grisly end gutted in a stable by a cuckolded lord.

Only in waking in the blue dark, nestled in gore-covered straw like a newborn hatchling, did he consider that something suspicious had occurred here. Though he distinctly recollected holding the hot bulge of his own innards as they steamed in the winter air, he woke to the white paunch of his belly undamaged, uneviscerated, unscarred.

When rifling through his scattered memories, the suspicion took hold that such a thing had occurred other times before.

“How do you not remember? How does one not realize they’ve died?”

“I don’t know, Yennefer, do you happen to know what being dead feels like, hmm? Do you often consider after waking from peaceful slumber whether you may have died rather than merely drifted off? Hmmmm? I don’t recall the first time. I don’t remember. I may have drunk myself to death and woken none the wiser and simply been glad not to face the hangover of the century. I may have tripped down the stairs and thought myself simply fallen unconscious. I may have been poisoned and elected in the morning to avoid the chef’s lamb in the future. I live a dangerous life of ill repute on the outskirts of society, Yennefer. I could have died a hundred times.”

She scoffs.

Self-important idiot. It would be no hardship to kill him again, but no, she does not wish to drag this conversation out ad infinitum.

“The djinn,” she says, arms crossed and brow raised.

“Mmm yeah. Totally snuffed it that time. Surprised you didn’t notice.”

“I was busy. And uninterested with the measly lives and piddling deaths of men such as yourself.”

“And now?”

“Hmmm?”

“Have I piqued your interest?”

Yennefer has turned from him, peering through the cracks in the shutters. The black outside is loud in its fullness. No moon, no stars.

Behind her, the dead man pools in the bed linens, breathing easy, not a mark left by the fatal touch of her hands.

* * *

Theirs is not the great love.

These details and this union will not be passed down through the ages, told hushed on cold nights by the hearth.or it will be sanitized and cauterized. Tidied up for the sake of the children. There is nothing to be widely yearned for here. The way she holds his head still through the tremors, vice grip bone fingers twisted along the cusp of his pretty blue eyes.

He is ugly in his convulsions. These details are ugly.

When he drools and whimpers, hemlock foam frothed on his white lips. When he wets her warm thigh with his ejaculate even as he begins his slump into stillness. These details will be smoothed over. When she feels the last twitches of his body through the skin of his cock. These moments will be lost from the legends.

* * *

He likes it when she tells him the ways that she could and will kill him, so aroused that his eyes roll and his teeth jitter, pink cock fattening under the unforgiving dig of the meat of her palm. Even hard, he is soft like velvet, supple in her fingers, and she passes the meat of him back and forth in each hand and then flicks with pinched nails and he sings and bows his body off the mattress.

She is struck by the mundanity of his deaths.

Most times, it is tidy. He is practiced at it, dying. He allows it to crest over him and sinks. He only rarely soils himself. Sometimes, his bladder relents to the trauma of it all, dark stains in rivulets down the silk of his legs. He wrinkles his nose over the smell and inconvenience when he breathes again, the ruining of the fabric.

Yennefer is able, through the manifestation of chaos, to reach inside of his brain and fissure something that ends it all as close to instantaneous as is possible. She most likes to do it like that when he is unaware, choking mid-rant over some trivial nonsense or another and suddenly slumping.

She does not repeat the bare hand stranglings often, disdainful of the work and fuss. It is easier to close his windpipe with a twist of power, an incantation whispering him into silence. Her magic allows for an ease to impossibilities. She does not have the brute strength to break him in her hands, spine and ribs and viscera, but with a word, his body contorts to her whims.

She tries poisons and malicious substances of all kinds, most pleased with those that kill him quickly and easily, pressed along with a snap of vertebrae when he dallies in dying and threatens a mess.

His deaths are hers. His sighs and gulps of air and tremors.

Theirs is no romance.

This is ugly. His body yielding to hers. His spill and sweat and shudder.

He likes it when she draws it out, looming her body above him and teasing the flat of his erection to the silken heat of her cunt. This time, he is bleeding in the brain, slow and seeping, vision stuttering out as he strokes through the coil of his optic nerve. He pleads with his last breath for her to _ruin him, take him, fuck him, please, plea--_ , but it is only as he yields to his mortality that her hips press back to slip down around him and take her pleasure.

An erection is only blood and other secretions, and a man is much the same.

It is no hardship (pun much intended) for a mage such as herself to hold him at full mast to take in death what she has denied him in his last moments. He remains stiff for her where she likes and pliant elsewhere. A dead man cannot deign to touch her, cannot look at the twisted expressions of her ecstasy. He sees of her only what she lets him see. She thrills in being watched by the blank glaze of the corpse’s eyes.

The body cools. The final warm part of him is the flesh she tucks inside and rocks down against, hands splayed to brace on his quiet chest.

And when he lurches back to awareness, quick balloon of his lungs and stutter of his hips, he is embarrassing in his open arousal, his sudden cries of pleasure, his rut and thrust and quick, pitiful release inside her. It is ugly, congealed and messy. It is ugly.

Theirs is not the great love.

* * *

In the aftermath, he is weak and mewling, newborn tender and testing his numbed grip with careful flexes of his hands and toes. He lies still, groaning and gasping, and leans into the shudders of a body remembering how to turn back on. She wonders, with the sort of distant academic interest siphoned into her through the study of magic and natural sciences, in what order it happens, anatomically. The marrow oozes fresh blood, the neurons clash like a struck gong, the heart seizes, the lungs wheeze, and at last, his eyes flutter open and latch on her. He smiles, sweet and dopey.

If pressed, he can be up and on his feet in a flurry of motion, tottering like a foal and shaking out the pins and needles, but he is a lazy hedonist in all things and especially in waking from his temporary deaths, stretching out against the burn of the muscles and grumbling and moaning obscenely and overall causing a fuss.

He likes to wake close to her, cradled or smothered or simply nearby, blinking around the crook of her elbow and turning his smile into the warmth of her skin.

And always, always, always, no matter the gore or the grit, the grief or the circumstance, the sick little bastard rouses back into awareness with his erection stiffening between his ragdoll legs.

Sometimes, he is slow coming back and she waits through the true rigor mortis hardening of his body. Frigid as a stone and gone jaw-taut sour with the first clench of decomposition. She touches him those times with the reverence of a devotee, feeling him stiffen beneath her, letting her ruddy, warm breast rest on the blueing of his lips.

When he fades back into the world, his instincts round his mouth around her nipple, and he gusts breath into the sweat of her chest, a lengthy inhale swelling his lungs as solidly as his erection against the fat of her belly. His hands paw the goosebumps from her upper arms, and his cold mouth suckles and she can feel it in her breast as the heat of him returns in increments.

She envelops him in the shroud of her body, blasphemous and heavy.

* * *

Yennefer is covetous; she wants all of him, little life and little deaths. Alive, he fits snug in her palm, brittle bird bones, nested quiet as a dove-soft offering. She bloodies his breastbone in sacrifice, she takes and takes and takes.

Dead, he heavies himself in her arms, sinking into her, cacophonous in his silence.

Alive again, he croons with the beauty of it all, the drama and the macabre limits of lust.

He is as greedy as she, desperate to sample life’s richest pleasures and sweetest agonies. He grooves his teeth into the skin of a red fruit and gushes with the tart juice of it. He drinks deep from flagons brimming with nectar, rolling down his throat. He puffs from the nub of a pipe and goes slack at the edges. He sprawls languid in the sun, chin tipped up; he turns his face into her hair.

He asks her to kill him, again, again, and she takes each death that she is given.

"Oh, how was it this time?" He asks, watery-eyed and sighing as numbness fades from his parted lips. "Was it very beautiful?"

"You shit yourself," drawls Yennefer.

His appalled, high-pitched chatter is worth the amused thrill when he spins to check.

She does not like to do it too violently, mindful of the mess. Mainly for his squawking after over his ruined clothing, but truly, she does not like the blood and pulse of it, no stomach for the spill and tear. She has known others, in the esteemed halls of Aretuza and the gleaming circles of the Brotherhood, who would delight in it. In his careful vivisection, pinned and stretched and flayed, prodding at the teeming, blood-rich mystery of his body and in experiments more gruesome and unthinkable.

( _How advanced must the damage be to render him irreparable? A wound heals, sliced fingertip regrows, but what of a digit, a hand, a limb? What of a beheading? What of a cremation? What of a removed organ implanted elsewhere? What of a sliver cut and eaten?)_

He is lucky that some other mage did not kill him first.

He is lucky that she covets him.

* * *

A poet who cannot die is insufferable, is masturbatory in his own fatal conceit, is prone to lilting into metaphor-rich hysterics over the sheer symbolism of it all, fixated on the motif of the undead storyteller, the ever-living artist, the constant and timeless purest construction of self.

A poet who cannot die is a bit of a cock.

And she learns that, at his depths, he truly is nothing but construct, a being of hot air and thematic imagery, lured in by the apparent romance of a life on the road, a song that warps the very path of history, the tremulous thread of Destiny herself, and at last a tragic death that never sticks, man undying and dying again.

How erotic is his suffering. How poignant is her lethal claim.

He croons these truths against her skin in moments after.

He is mostly artifice, her poet, her dead man. He is a story told self unto self, built up from every hedonistic indulgence and every ugly demise. He is excess. He is, at the root of it all, the fear that he will die and die and die and live and live and yet, never touch any life with any impression that endures through the ages. To live forever and all time and still shrink into forgotten, dusty, dismal history.

He is ugly in his fear. He is loud in his ugliness.

Yennefer loves him but only in the way he loves himself -- as the shape of a clay vessel crafted to contain him and spilling, spilling, spilling.

* * *

The Witcher knows of his queer mortal curse, that he cannot be killed in any way that matters, but does not stomach his prattling on about it, does not want to know, does not know of the truly perverse depravity of his relations with Yennefer.

With sureness, one day, Geralt will die. One death. One surrender. The Witcher barrels endlessly, steadfastly toward death, and the bard embraces it like a lover.

The first and only time that the Witcher kills him, it is a mercy.

An iron nail pierces the sole of his boot. The wound festers and curls black at the edges. He catches Geralt by the arm as he lies shivering with fever, no healer, blank wilderness, staring at the slow crawl of days withering down to nothing and tightening to the rolling throes of his body until the end comes at last.

His bard does not ask it of him. He does not have to.

Geralt bends to cup both rough hands around his head, thumbs tucked under the hook of his jaw, skull held bird egg gentle.

And wrenches.

* * *

After Caingorn, after Sodden, what Yennefer does to him is another mercy.

As in all things, he takes grief to extremes. Spite and hurt. Heartbreak.

He is messy in his ugly desire, his pain, his desperation. He distills the rejection into a slew of incoherent pleas.

_Fill me. Tether me. Know me, know me. May I be a pawn in your story, may I live on in some part of you. May I be relevant, may I be a touchstone, may I rattle you. Just a little. This memory. This unmaking._

Of her many sexual tools and accoutrements, her most devious is the weighty thing shaped to the image of a troll phallus, thick and long as a forearm. It may be fitted seamlessly to the shape of her pubic bone by the work of magic, and it is this that he begs for until she relents.

_Keep me. Claim me. Until you are full of me. Until I am full of you. Take me, take me, keep me._

"I can take it, Yennefer," gasps the poet. "I can take anything you to give me."

His body cannot take it.

Yennefer has better than Witcher stamina -- she has chaos and grit. She does not weaken. She does not wane. She rests but does not allow him to rest; his body gives until it cannot give. On the third day, he whimpers and gapes, the pink puff of his abused skin yawning and bloodied red. He unspools on her in bits at a time, loose and pliant.

It is ugly. He is ugly in his desperation.

When she presses her fingertips to the bead of sweat at his temple and reaches in and shatters him, it is a mercy.

Yennefer watches as his body reshapes itself, the wet pool of his guts gathering in a tangle of unwound thread and hitching in and in again.

* * *

_(If one spread him open at the sternum and held, could the body find a way to knit closed or would he meld around the tear, deformed and misshapen into a new image, touched by her hand? If one excised a piece of him and destroyed the rest and tucked it deep into the little void where a womb once snagged, could it be reborn there, remade there, his flesh swelling into life until her body burst with it?)_

Given another few lifetimes, she may have asked it of him.

She knows that he would yield.

* * *

In the end, he carries her to the water.

Unlike him, she possesses only the one death, Great and Final.

He is the true everyman, audience proxy, accumulating lifetimes one rebirth after another, and he can never have this like she can. Yennefer of Vengerberg, Destroyer at last destroyed, lain down to a pyre and catching flame in bonfire stories hereafter. Eons on, a crooked old man leaning to tell the little children tall tales of the witch and her Witcher and their shared Destiny. Perhaps the old man will remember and recite some of the Master’s verse. The cadence of his syllables lost to the evolution of language, his stanzas burning down to ash.

And they will say:

In the end, Dandelion carries her to the water.

Or whatever they call him then.

The Storyteller carries her to the water. The Narrator. The Ageless Poet. Everyman and any man.

Or they will forget him and she will drag herself to the shore. Or the Witcher will carry her, exsanguinating. Or Ciri will bear her, daughter become mother, spilled out into the sea. Or she will not die, she will live and live in defiance of them all or someday, she will return when the world is most cast into strife.

And they will call her something different, someday. Her character will schism into separate parts, tumbling narratively into other tales. The witch and the mother and the Queen. Names shuffling their origins.

_Yennefer. Gwenhwyfar. Guinevere._

Settling into the silt of myth and legend, and only the one ages-old creature who knows the truth, waiting, waiting, until even his body and memory gives to dust.


End file.
